Shooting Kabul (19 page)

It had been two days since he'd returned home from the fight at school. Forty-eight hours since his camera had been smashed to pieces. Two thousand, eight hundred and eighty-eight minutes since the moment his chance to win the competition had evaporated. One hundred seventy-two thousand, eight hundred and eighty-eight seconds since he'd failed Mariam, yet again.
There's no denying it. I'm a complete loser with no honor.
Anger burned through him, and he hungered for
badal
. He didn't care what his father said; Ike and Felix had taken something precious from him, and he wanted revenge.

Habib pulled the taxi next to a restaurant called Khyber Pass. It turned out that the restaurant's owner,
Gul Khan, was one of Habib's classmates from Kabul University, where Khan had studied biochemistry. They'd run into each other at Friday prayers and become reacquainted. Gul Khan had come to California years before and opened the tiny family-run restaurant off Peralta Boulevard in Little Kabul.

As Fadi followed his family inside, they were greeted by a short smiling man with a curved mustache. He bound forward and gave Habib a crushing hug.

This must be Gul Khan
, thought Fadi. He peered around the cozy space, covered with red and black carpets and paintings of the Afghan countryside. Traditional music played softly from the stereo in the back.

“
Salaam Alaikum
, Brother Habib, Sister Zafoona,” cried Gul Khan. “Welcome to my humble restaurant. And these must be your beautiful children.”

Fadi ducked his head and mumbled his
Salaam
s.

Gul Khan seated them at one of the six tables in the practically empty restaurant. The only other customers were an older American couple, reviewing the laminated menu through bifocals.

“Business has been slow.” Gul Khan sighed. “You know.”

They all nodded. They knew.

“At least my store is secure,” added Gul Khan under
his breath. “A few stores down from me there's a carpet shop owned by a Pakistani man. It was vandalized the other night—the windows broken … awful things written in spray paint.”

“These are difficult times, Brother Gul.” Zafoona sighed. “We must be strong and vigilant.”

“You are right, Sister, you are right,” responded Gul as he handed them menus.

Fadi was happy to see that there was a sparkle in his mother's eyes tonight. She had made the effort to do her hair and had put on some lipstick, with Noor's urging.

Gul Khan's wife was in the kitchen, which could be seen from the dining area through a long rectangular window. She stood over bubbling pots, stirring. When she saw them look in, she hurried out to greet them.

“My wife makes the best
mantu
in town.” Gul Khan beamed as his wife blushed.

“Then we will definitely have it,” said Habib.

As the family settled down, Gul Khan's teenage son brought a starter salad to their table, along with glasses of
dogh
, a yogurt drink filled with chopped cucumbers and mint.

“Smells wonderful.” Habib sniffed in appreciation.

“Yes, it does,” said Zafoona with a rare smile.

Gul Khan came by to collect their orders, and within
minutes their table was overflowing with hot fragrant food. Fadi avoided the plate of
mantu
and chewed on a piece of tender grilled chicken, watching the American couple awkwardly dunk bread into their eggplant dip.

“How is everything?” asked Gul Khan as he came around to refill their water half an hour later.

“Delicious, Brother Gul,” said Zafoona. Her cheeks were pink, and she'd eaten most of the food on her plate.

Gul smiled with pride and paused when the phone rang. “One moment, please,” he said, and hurried over to pick it up. He stood quietly, listening to the caller at the other end. As the seconds passed, he grew agitated. “Oh, Allah, have mercy,” he whispered. His eyes darted back toward the kitchen. He hung up the phone and reached over to the stereo. He switched off the tape and adjusted the knobs on the radio.

Soon an English-accented voice of a BBC reporter filtered through the room.

“Brother Habib,” said Gul Khan in a hushed voice. He hurried over and stood at their table, twiddling his fingers. “Listen to what is happening.”

Fadi put his fork down, and his ears perked up to the details spilling from the commentator's lips.

“Tomahawk cruise missiles were launched from both U.S. and British ships this evening, signaling the start
of Operation Enduring Freedom. This was accompanied by a mix of strikes from land-based B-1 Lancer, B-2 Spirit, and B-52 Stratofortress bombers. The initial military objective, as articulated by President George W. Bush, is to destroy terrorist training camps and infrastructure within Afghanistan, the capture of al-Qaeda leaders, and the cessation of terrorist activities.”

Fadi hunched over his plate as his appetite evaporated. He watched his parents' faces pale as they all imagined the falling bombs.
Were they bombing Jalalabad? What about Mariam?

F
ADI FELT LIKE A
hairy single-celled paramecium, immobilized under a microscope, squashed between two plates of glass. He wished he could fly right out the window, but he couldn't. Trapped, he sat in a slippery vinyl chair under Principal Hornstein's probing gaze.

“So, boys, what are we going to do about this?” said Principal Hornstein. He leaned forward on his desk and intertwined lean fingers with tufts of brown hair growing at the bases.

Fadi held his tongue and glanced to his right. Ike slouched next to him, inspecting his fingernails. He, too, said nothing. Principal Hornstein had sent the school
secretary to call both of them into his office fifteen minutes earlier. Ignoring a feeling of impending doom, Fadi had felt a surge of satisfaction as he'd seen Ike's face. The redhead's lip was still puffy from where Fadi had clobbered him. A flame of anger went through him.
He's just a bully
.
I'm not going to let him beat me.

Principal Hornstein sighed. “The janitor told me there were three boys involved in the fight. Two ran away, and one stayed, which was Fadi. Now, Ike, the janitor recognized you. He'd seen you snooping around his supply closet, but he couldn't place the other boy. So, why don't you tell me who he is?”

Fadi waited, watching Ike fidget in his seat.
I could tell Principal Hornstein
, he thought.
I could get them both busted for attacking me
…
for breaking my camera
…
for ruining my chance to win the competition
.

Ike looked down at his feet and mumbled. “It's a guy I know from Cesar Chavez Elementary, across town.”

“I see,” said Principal Hornstein. He leaned back in his chair with raised eyebrows. “And what is his name?”

“Leo,” said Ike, a bit too quickly. “I don't know his last name.”

Principal Hornstein turned to Fadi. “Do you know this Leo?”

Fadi took a deep breath. Felix's name was on the tip of
his tongue, ready to tumble out. “No, I don't,” he said.

Ike straightened in his chair, blinking slowly. Fadi caught Ike staring at him, Ike's pale gray eyes narrowed. Fadi gave him a cold stare in return.
I'm not a tattletale,
and I'm not going to get even through Principal Hornstein.
Ike frowned and looked away.

“The janitor mentioned the boy was Asian?” prodded Principal Hornstein.

“I think Leo's, uh, Filipino—uh, Korean, or something,” fumbled Ike.

“I see,” said Principal Hornstein. “So No-Last-Name-Leo is Filipino or Korean or something. I'll have to call Principal Jackson over at Cesar Chavez and see who this Leo is.”

The two boys sat still, not moving a muscle.

“Without any cooperation I'm left with no choice. The policy for fighting on school grounds is set—three days suspension, starting today. I'm going to have to call your parents, so why don't you both take seats outside.”

Fadi bristled at the unfairness of it, but remained silent. He pushed off from his seat and stalked to the door, elbowing past Ike. As he'd sat simmering in his chair, his mind had been working overtime. He'd come up with a plan, and he needed to put it into action.

˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙

As Fadi waited outside Principal Hornstein's office for his father to pick him up, he asked the secretary if he could use the bathroom. At her curt nod he headed toward the art studio. He had to talk to Ms. Bethune. He didn't care if he was busted if they caught him; he was on a mission. He had a little more than eighty hours left, and somehow he was going to enter the competition.

Ms. Bethune saw Fadi enter, and she froze. “Fadi!” she exclaimed. “Oh, my goodness! What happened?” She put down the painting she had been about to hang up, and hurried over.

Fadi gave her a brief version of what had happened, leaving out Felix's involvement.

“And they broke your camera?” asked Ms. Bethune.

“It's completely destroyed,” said Fadi with a deep sigh. His eye glinted with anger, and the bruise on his temple throbbed.

“I'm so sorry, Fadi,” whispered Ms. Bethune. She patted him on the shoulder. “Look, I think maybe you should tell Principal Hornstein that you didn't start the fight—”

“No,” said Fadi. “I'm sorry, but … I can't do that.”

“You've put me in a tough spot, Fadi,” said Ms. Bethune. “I need to tell Principal Hornstein what I know.”

“Can you just … pretend you don't know anything, please?” whispered Fadi.

Ms. Bethune let out a deep sigh. “Well, I guess I'm not lying to save you from getting caught or receiving punishment,” she thought out loud. “If you want to be punished for something you didn't do, I guess I could keep quiet … though I don't like it.”

“Thanks, Ms. Bethune,” said Fadi with relief, and changed the subject. “I'm still going to enter the competition.”

“Well, you can borrow the photo club practice camera,” said Ms. Bethune. She unlocked her desk drawer and pulled it out.

“No, I won't need it,” said Fadi. The club's camera didn't work properly since so many students had fiddled with it over the years. “I just wanted to request some more time, if possible.”

“Well, I was going to collect the pictures on Thursday, after school. After putting the packet together, my goal was to mail it out Friday.”

“Can I give you my photo on Friday? It's just that I need a day to take the picture, process the negatives, and then develop the print in the darkroom, the day I come back from suspension. Oh, and get it to dry.”

“Well, considering the circumstances, I think that would be okay. But I need your entry form and photograph no later than by end of day Friday.”

“Thank you, Ms. Bethune,” said Fadi with a heartfelt grin. Now he had to ask a good friend for a favor. That, and figure out what to shoot.

Later that night Fadi poked at his chicken stew with his bread as the family sat for dinner. He glanced at his father's exhausted face from under his eyelashes and felt a stab of guilt, coupled with shame. After his talk with Principal Hornstein, Habib had driven Fadi home. While stopped at the railroad crossing, he'd turned to Fadi and asked what had happened. So Fadi had told him the truth, even about Felix. Habib had shaken his head sadly, and asked if Fadi would reconsider telling Principal Hornstein the truth. When Fadi explained that he couldn't, Habib surprised him by accepting his decision.

He knows it's about honor,
thought Fadi, feeling even worse. He watched his mother stir the yogurt, her face solemn, thoughts adrift. Fadi knew her mind was wrapped up in the recent bombing of eastern Afghanistan. It was breaking news all over the television. Habib hadn't wanted to burden her with news of Fadi's suspension, so it was to be their little secret. He'd be spending the next two days at the Fremont library,
keeping up with his schoolwork.

Fadi looked across the small dining table and smiled slightly as Noor gave him a wink. For a moment, despite all the chaos swirling around him, his heart felt full. He was thankful for his family, thankful that they were safe. The emotion caught him off guard. He saw his father squeeze his mother's hand, and she gave him a glimmer of a smile in return. As he chewed on a piece of bread, Fadi smiled. He knew exactly what he was going to shoot.